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HotTexasCowboy
Star
- Joined
- Feb 7, 2011
The moving van appeared early on a Saturday morning. Two hispanics and a black man opened the rear doors, set up a ramp, and started moving in boxes and plastic wrapped furniture in through the open garage and the front door. Before long, another car drove up, a sporty Mustang, and another black man got out to help and direct the others on where things should go. The newcomer was taller than the other workers, and his body seemed almost overly fit even for such a physical job. His handsome features were topped by close-cut black hair, but was otherwise clean shaven.
At a break, the other three men sat down in the shade and sipped soft drinks, while the newcomer took a leisurely walk around the house, carefully gazing at the walls, windows, garden plots and fences. The house was not unknown to him; he had been here before, toured it, considered the neighborhood, and studied its history. There was more to him than his appearance; he was a careful researcher.
At one point, a neighbor's young boy stepped up to the lower rung of their mutual fence and shouted across in the excitement of an otherwise typical weekend day. "Hey, Mister," the boy asked, "Do you know who's moving in here?"
The man smiled. "I do," he answered with a playful tone. "It's me. I'm the one moving in."
The boy looked surprised. "You? But you're a negro!" he said, as if stating something profound. So far, all his friends and neighbors had been other whites. "Hey, you got any kids?" came the next question, getting, for an eleven year old boy, to the heart of things.
The newcomer shook his head sadly. "'Fraid not, neighbor. It'll be just me, but maybe we'll see if something can be done about that." He grinned and winked and moved on about his inspection.
By late that afternoon, Garrett Loomis was sweating as much as the movers. It wasn't like him not to pitch in to physical labor, and he had some furniture pieces he wanted to be sure weren't damaged in the move. At three, he'd opened his shirt, revealing the strongly-toned pecs and hard, lean stomach of an athlete, which he had been. At six-two, some of his teammates had labeled him "Giant", but as a tight end, his height and conditioning had served him well. He had earned good money in a six year career, but what few of his colleagues in pro football knew was that, in the off-season, he labored at his manual typewriter, tapping out pages of his first novel.
The clever murder mystery, set in the locker rooms and managerial suites of pro sports, reeked with authenticity and originality, and had been a modest hit. The fact that his 'hero' was a black man on the team, dealing with the pressures of the game and random encounters of racism only added to the novel's appeal. Loomis had written one sequel and was at work on a third. Professional sports and a writing career let him look for nicer digs, and he'd always wanted a nice house in a nice neighborhood, with room for some gardening and maybe one of those hot tub thingies. His Alabama accent was still pretty strong, but he had taken his education seriously, at his widowed (and now passed) mother's constant insistence.
By five, the movers were done, the truck loaded up and driven away. Garrett was left to unpack boxes and set up the house as he wanted. He designed one bedroom as his writing center, with a desk for his typing and several bookshelves of research. On the second floor, it looked out into his backyard, where he hoped he'd enjoy the view of a garden to come. It also peeked over the fence on both sides. While he hadn't met any neighbors, he figured the curious boy next door would be spreading the word of the new man on the street.
At a break, the other three men sat down in the shade and sipped soft drinks, while the newcomer took a leisurely walk around the house, carefully gazing at the walls, windows, garden plots and fences. The house was not unknown to him; he had been here before, toured it, considered the neighborhood, and studied its history. There was more to him than his appearance; he was a careful researcher.
At one point, a neighbor's young boy stepped up to the lower rung of their mutual fence and shouted across in the excitement of an otherwise typical weekend day. "Hey, Mister," the boy asked, "Do you know who's moving in here?"
The man smiled. "I do," he answered with a playful tone. "It's me. I'm the one moving in."
The boy looked surprised. "You? But you're a negro!" he said, as if stating something profound. So far, all his friends and neighbors had been other whites. "Hey, you got any kids?" came the next question, getting, for an eleven year old boy, to the heart of things.
The newcomer shook his head sadly. "'Fraid not, neighbor. It'll be just me, but maybe we'll see if something can be done about that." He grinned and winked and moved on about his inspection.
By late that afternoon, Garrett Loomis was sweating as much as the movers. It wasn't like him not to pitch in to physical labor, and he had some furniture pieces he wanted to be sure weren't damaged in the move. At three, he'd opened his shirt, revealing the strongly-toned pecs and hard, lean stomach of an athlete, which he had been. At six-two, some of his teammates had labeled him "Giant", but as a tight end, his height and conditioning had served him well. He had earned good money in a six year career, but what few of his colleagues in pro football knew was that, in the off-season, he labored at his manual typewriter, tapping out pages of his first novel.
The clever murder mystery, set in the locker rooms and managerial suites of pro sports, reeked with authenticity and originality, and had been a modest hit. The fact that his 'hero' was a black man on the team, dealing with the pressures of the game and random encounters of racism only added to the novel's appeal. Loomis had written one sequel and was at work on a third. Professional sports and a writing career let him look for nicer digs, and he'd always wanted a nice house in a nice neighborhood, with room for some gardening and maybe one of those hot tub thingies. His Alabama accent was still pretty strong, but he had taken his education seriously, at his widowed (and now passed) mother's constant insistence.
By five, the movers were done, the truck loaded up and driven away. Garrett was left to unpack boxes and set up the house as he wanted. He designed one bedroom as his writing center, with a desk for his typing and several bookshelves of research. On the second floor, it looked out into his backyard, where he hoped he'd enjoy the view of a garden to come. It also peeked over the fence on both sides. While he hadn't met any neighbors, he figured the curious boy next door would be spreading the word of the new man on the street.
